He said I walked like a rich girl
as I wiggled my Sicilian ass
in his upper East Side face.
He said it was something in my arms --
the way they moved in place
rather than swung, like other women
without class -- our life's lot.
Sometimes I forgot, but most times I
held those arms tight, veins bulging
with the burden of facade. Hung
my little hundred buck bag from the crook
like I'd seen Park Avenue hags do --
the Visa bills bulged from the perfect
seams, ruffling in the green gusts
of Riverside.
He took me home and taught me how
to screw like rich girls do --
perspiration beaded on swan neck,
perfect pearls -- ivory thighs
parted just enough to acquiese--
batting eyes. Nothing to enjoy --
perfect loving for a prep school boy.
I thought of Angelo, our nights
of funky smells and legs spread wide --
veins bulging with the thrill
of nothing to hide. Beads of sweat wild
and hair tangled, lips bruised.
I never felt used with Angelo. He loved
my swinging arms and moans of joy.
He had no class -- just my kinda boy.